What to Know and What to Leave Behind
by Entwife Incognito
Summary: Tag to 703 Orange Blossom Ice Cream. What if Jane and Lisbon had stayed in their hotel room to discuss old relationships instead of over dinner? One-shot. Warning! Adult sexual situations. If you don't like that, don't read this! Disclaimer: I own nothing about The Mentalist.


Water sizzled from the showerhead and echoed on the tile. Jane sprawled on his side across the pillow end of the bed at the adjoining wall, the phone on one ear, the other tuned to flappy wet little footsteps as Lisbon moved in the shower. He imagined her, wet and soapy, shampoo dripping down her back. Rivulets of water spilling from the tips of her breasts as she lifted them. Sheets of water running down her back as she bent, opening her legs to rinse. Turning to open her cheeks for the water to run in the cleft of her bottom. He'd showered with her many times now and knew how she cleaned her body. Imagining her was doing very pleasant things to his body this minute. Intimate knowledge. The library he and Lisbon were building now.

In the shower, Teresa Lisbon watched soapsuds swirl with water, pooling before it quickly flowed down the drain. Her hair was pulled up to keep it dry under the spray. She cut the water and stepped out to dry, the thick hotel towel soft and warm on her skin. The white terry, shortie robe she threw on showed off her slim legs and small feet, skin warm and rosy from her shower, sleek and moist from her shave.

She'd been out of sorts ever since Abbott announced he needed them to work undercover on this case. Erica Flynn's involvement soured it from the start. But Teresa's naturally possessive and jealous feelings about Patrick flared at the deep sense there had once been something between Erica and him, something that could begin again. But what truly galled her was working the deal that would free Erica from her status as murderess and fugitive. The fact that she had been Lisbon's collar only added to the displeasure.

Jane was nearly drowned as part of a memory test by an international criminal. Lisbon had been kidnapped after Erica gave away her presence to the man. And that was just this afternoon! Riding back together, they had glanced warily at each other, eyes wide in the knowledge that they had nearly lost one another for the second time in as many weeks. And it seemed to have set the cap on the night.

Tonight would be their first opportunity to make love in the nice hotel room in exotic Beirut. Patrick watched Teresa step deliberately out of the bathroom and start across the carpet without looking at him. Something in her frown tugged at him, seemed to ask for help in getting over her feelings. He could let it go, do something else for a while and see if she cheered up enough for later. Leaving Erica and Lisbon in the room alone had amused him a little at the time. But Lisbon's hurt distress had a helplessness to it that made him hurt, too. Erica had definitely said something to disturb his Teresa. The kiss. It had to be the kiss he and Erica had shared years ago, the one he had decided not to tell Teresa about. A twinge of guilt and shame hit him. It was an emotional trap in their relationship, no matter what he did. So he'd opted not to tell her and hope for the best.

Looking at her shower pink legs under the shortie bath robe was stirring, as arousing as watching her little bare feet. He longed to seduce her from the robe and take in the scent of her clean, warm body, soft from hot water and moisturizer. She would likely not refuse him if he tried sex as a way to reach her and make her open to him. But the disturbance in her would be a barrier between them. She might let him fuck her, but it would not be making love without her fully present, loving him and enjoying the act of him loving her. A sharp twinge of sadness raced through him like a mild electric shock, imagining that slightly dead fuck where she might just open her body to him and wait for it to be over. It was far too soon, if ever, for that to happen between them.

Truth be told, Teresa felt a bit like crying. She struggled and failed to project patience and calm with Erica's fawning, oily ways while the woman let it drop, "oops," that something had happened between her and Patrick a few years before. Erica succeeded in suddenly having an upper hand in Lisbon's relationship with Jane. It exacerbated her frustration and distaste for the case. She could not stop her natural possessiveness and jealousy from fueling this sulky pout. Was there more to Patrick's secret with Erica? Perhaps he thought it was none of her business, but she felt miserable about it.

How could she shake this nasty-edged funk? Her mind couldn't let it go. She wished Patrick would do or say something that would settle her feelings. But she was too inexperienced in depending on a partner's emotional help to know how to ask or what to ask for. She didn't know how to elicit the help she needed from Patrick other than crawling into his arms like a big baby needing comfort from its colicky upset. Inducing his pity seemed creepy and beneath her. Anyway, why would he welcome it as a starting point for clearing an issue about another woman between them? She could let the anger out, start a fight, but it wasn't fair to do that to him without knowing what was going on. Dammit, there was just too much she didn't know about this awkward, uncomfortable romantic relationship crap. But her love for Patrick, and his need for hers, kept her going even under her pout.

Patrick stretched as Teresa continued across the room. "Ooooof. You know, I'm not that tired. What about you?"

She stopped and tuned to meet his gaze, "No."

Her round eyes made a gentle path, even in upset, for him to help her. She attempted to keep her voice light, a signal to Jane that she wanted to connect with him so that she could feel better, feel close to him again. "You wanna go get something to eat?"

"Yeah, sure."

Even with her light tone, the distance and pain in her voice resonated somewhere in his chest and belly. If only he could get her to talk to him. "Everything okay?"

"Fine."

His approach wasn't working so well, her back turned to him as she gave that uninviting one-word answer. "Teresa?"

When she turned, her eyes flashed anger, but she said nothing and returned to rummaging through her bag.

"I . . . I'm feeling bad . . . that something has happened to make you angry with me. I really want to talk . . ."

"So, talk." Articles in hand, she straightened and started to walk into the closet.

It might be unpleasant, but drawing her out, even if her first emotion was anger, was what he felt driven to do. It felt right. "Not like this . . . with you so far away I can't even see your face."

She stepped into the open entry to the bedroom, facing him. Her eyes were big and wounded but she rolled them up and sighed, more to get possession of herself, he thought. Then she looked at him calmly and waited.

"What's up?"

"Nothing," she answered in a voice far too high.

He lifted his chin at her, smiled tightly and cut his eyes away from hers, a quiet signal that he knew she was lying.

Catching herself, she smiled at him, lowered her voice and said, "Nothing," again and tried to smile.

He patted the bed. "Would you come sit with me?"

The hurt inside her wanted to run to him, for them to make it all better. But she wouldn't let herself because she didn't want to give the same to him. The anger demanded she make a point by standing firm just long enough to let him begin to think she would not come to him. When his eyes drooped and he lowered his flushing face to gaze at the bedspread, she walked slowly toward the bed, then sat on the mattress a little distance away. The sadness she saw in his face when he looked at her made her want to cry, but she would not. Instead, she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I need to talk to you, too."

"I'm sure I've done something wrong. Please tell me what it is." It likely was that kiss, but he didn't want to introduce the subject if it wasn't the cause of her upset. Maybe something else had happened. He could always hope.

"It wasn't exactly you. It was Erica." Talking to the bedspread at first, she raised her head to look into his eyes. "But yeah, it was you."

"Oh. Tell me. Please. I'll . . . I'll try to make it right." This conversation was going to be a bitch.

Lisbon knew he was sincere now, but he had to have known that, whatever had happened between Erica and him, the viper would let it drop at the first opportunity. Yet, Patrick had let Teresa go in without the information she needed. Erica had triumphed at Teresa's ignorance. "Patrick . . . did something happen between you and Erica Flynn?" As much as she disliked conflict, especially with Patrick, this was important.

"Why?"

"She made a point of letting me know that it did, so . . . did it?" Teresa looked him right in the eyes. She would not accept anything but the truth.

Though he hid it well, a snake of cold fear coiled around Patrick's heart and he looked down from Teresa's quietly demanding gaze. He felt his face heat and couldn't control it as he searched for a way out and knew only the truth would do. "Uhhhhh. Well, unh . . . actually, yes. Something did."

Lisbon's eyes were round and soft with expected hurt as she waited for him to finish. "Oh."

"When we were working together . . . we kissed."

"You kissed."

"Just once, in her hotel room."

"This story just keeps on getting better."

"It was nothing," he pleaded.

"Don't say that, okay?"

"Okay, well, you're right. It wasn't nothing . . . at the time, but it was a long time ago and uh . . . it was never gonna amount to anything. It just—it couldn't."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it."

Lisbon rejected his lie immediately. "Well, when you found out we were coming here, you could have told me."

"Yes, I thought about it then," he confessed, "but I made a decision not to tell you because I was . . . worried that . . . uhm . . . that it would come between us."

"I just wish I'd heard it from you first, that's all."

Patrick lowered his gaze and began to nod in that way he had of acknowledging he'd made a mistake. His voice croaked as he admitted it. "Yeah," he said, looking apologetic. "I should've told you." He looked for forgiveness in her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Really."

He could still see the hurt, the doubt. Concern that there was more that he kept from her.

She understood his fear, his worry that telling this secret could have become a wedge between them to drive her away.

He understood that not telling her had come between them because of the way she had found out. It was almost a no-win situation, but when he knew they would see Erica, the balance had tipped. He should have recognized that and told her. He did, actually. But he was too afraid to tell her.

It was subtle, but her eyes gave away something frozen in her mind. There was more that she wanted to know, and forced herself to ask.

"Are there any others . . . that I should know about? Like people we've worked with? It would, it would help me if I, if I knew—."

"No." It pained him that she thought he would—.

"Loralei? I always thought that maybe something happened with you two . . . "

Patrick reeled and felt like he'd just been hit with a bat. The course of this conversation was overwhelming. What Lisbon asked for . . . it was huge and it almost took away his breath. "Loralei?"

"Uh-huh." Her face was calm and her voice soft.

He studied Teresa for a moment. Her line of questioning was suddenly too one-sided and treading a dangerous chasm. It was too powerful an issue for him to just roll on. "Okay, how about this? I'll tell you about Lorelei . . ." He couldn't help the playful smirk that tried to form on his lips. "If you will tell me about one Walter Mashburn." He was calling her to give what she was asking him for. Meet the stakes or fold.

Patrick had never seen this particular look in her eyes. Just the thought of what she would have to say about Mashburn was a dying light there as she paused and retreated. Ah. Folding. Good. Neither of them needed to tread this path, and particularly not at this time in their relationship.

Teresa's tongue darted out and licked to the corner of her mouth. "So what was that phone call about?"

It took a second for his thoughts to regroup. " Oh. I gave Wylie the numbers. Abbott said to lay low."

"Oh. Room service?"

"Sounds great. Uh . . . am I forgiven?" He squinted his eyes and cocked his head.

Laying a hand on his cheek, she squeezed gently. "Of course. I promise. You will always be forgiven."

"Anything? You'll let me off on anything?" His doubt was clear.

"Forgiving and letting you off are two different things."

"How so?"

"Forgiving you is in my heart. I love you too much not to forgive you."

Patrick smiled broadly, and she slid a quieting finger against his lips. "But that doesn't mean that what you do doesn't matter. It does. A lot. We're trying to be together, here, right?"

"Yes." He toyed with the hem of the short terry robe. The panels split open over her curled legs, barely shading the soft dark covering at the apex of her thighs.

"Well, we can make each other miserable. Or we can make each other happy. It takes time to learn how."

He breathed in sharply, opening his mouth to speak.

"Shhhhh, Patrick. You make me very happy almost all the time. I love you very much."

Taking her hand, he caressed it, then pulled it slightly away. "We're going to have issues." Her fingertips were tender on his lips as he kissed each one, then pulled her hand to his heart, where she could feel its pounding speed. "I'm afraid, Teresa. I'm afraid to have issues with you."

"I know. I'm afraid, too. But as long as we can face them together and talk like this, we'll be fine. I know we will." His strong heartbeat thundered against her hand as she bent to him for a kiss, approaching slowly to feel his warm breath, then snatching the kiss in a sudden passion.

"I feel such love for you, Patrick. Desire. Right now, I want us to be together, our bodies, to join together. I don't want to feel separate from you. So close . . ." She kissed him again, seeking entrance to his mouth, invading him sweetly when he opened and took her in turn.

He pressed her lower back to bring her closer, savoring the warmth and her flesh as she snuggled against him, stroking his side, pulling on him to be even closer. He needed to be out of his clothes. "Let's take down the bed and turn out the lights so we can be cozy in the sheets, huh?"

"I want to undress you first."

Her hands touched everywhere, petting and soothing him, exciting him unbearably. Jacket and shirt gone, she pressed her fingers under the front of his waistband and lightly rubbed the creases where it had marked him, popping the fastener with her thumb and pulling down the zipper. Going easy, she pushed pants and underwear low to his hip, kissing the skin on his belly as she exposed it. His hardness pushed against her throat and she tugged his underwear over the plump head, taking it into her mouth.

Patrick hissed at the sudden focus of warmth, softness and pleasure, sighing, "Ohhhhh."

In a few moments, Teresa let him go and stood, taking Patrick by the hand, and they turned down the bed, the crisp white sheets so inviting. Glimpses of her breasts and the bottom of her cheeks as she bent to work tantalized him. When she started to undo her robe, he stayed her hand and helped her get into bed, cutting the lights. The room filled with muted coral sunset through the lightly curtained windows.

"Lie on your back, Teresa. I want to unwrap you like a present."

"And then you'll give me my present?" She eyed him quietly. The stiff rod of his sex made her ache with want.

"All yours. All yours, Teresa." She seemed to be in an altered state, deeply in touch with something passionate and expansive.

"Make love to me."

Slowly, he undid the tie to the robe, then carefully laid it open. She had lost the freshly showered rosiness, but her supple skin shone with rich health, a beautiful covering to her sex-toned, sleek form. He held her arms as he pulled the sleeves away. Teresa's nipples were already peaking for him, so he suckled them very gently just to listen to her sighs, then stroked the sensitive sides of her breasts to bring her to a hotter pitch.

He kissed her everywhere, treasuring her and telling her in his slow scratchy voice how beautiful and how loved were every feature. He ran his fingertips through the short hair over her sex. "Your little pelt here. It's so soft and dark and close to your body. I never want to stop touching you here."

Releasing a soft groan, her legs relaxed under his petting, opening gently to his hand and fingers. Soon she was gasping, thumping around the two fingers he held inside as he played her with his thumb. "Oh, you're so beautiful in orgasm. I love you so much."

Eyes still shut in ecstasy, she smiled at his words.

He entered her tenderly, moved tenderly, lazily, coaxing rather than driving them to completion. Exploring, nudging, gently swirling eroticism into a hypnotic dance. He felt the mystery of where he touched her inside, a place he could never see, could only know by sense when he made love to her, dark and warm and alive. His sexual organ was a gift that let him know this special place in her body. He closed his eyes and his mind to this place only. "I love you, Teresa."

Totally in sync, her hands lay on his arms, but did not try to guide or hurry him, letting him have the complete control he needed to make this love be his expression. Legs open and knees bent in ease, her hips cradled him, following his movements, taking nothing more as her body began to draw its bow.

Weight supported on his hands, muscular arms flexing and back bowed, his hips turned all that strength and power to tenderness, free to caress her inside without ceasing. Lifting her hands to his face, she spoke to him, little fingers playing behind his jaws, under the ears.

"You don't think you have a soul. But I know you do. It's passionate, full of love . . . bruised. It calls mine, all the time. Your soul makes me know you, makes me love you, brings us to . . . this."

He yielded to her words as truth because he had no explanation for the strength and nameless loveliness that mingled them, dabbled them together, a sublime impressionist painting. "Soulmates."

"Yes."

He listened to her breath. It whispered to him, sang to him as he played the instrument of her body with movement deep inside. He treasured the rigid organ that drew this passion from her, gave what her soul sought from him, brought them to ecstasy.

A beautiful sound, like trees soughing in high wind, flowed from her throat as she began to crest. Gently, he eased her away from anything that made her body edge to frantic. Always moving in her, kissing her throat and neck, toying with her nipples, her gentle responses filled his every erotic need. He was falling with her, the deep music of his breath a counterpoint to her singing sighs. At the end, they keened together with breath that sounded deep release, oboe and bassoon.

They lay still joined in post-coital white sleep, the air humming with . . . something . . . electronic. Patrick recognized . . .

"Is that your phone?"


End file.
